


Doctor of Philosophy

by MissIdaGreen



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Breakup, Coffee, Derek Morgan - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, French Kissing, French Toast, Makeup, Morgan/Reid friendship - Freeform, Smut, antiquarian books, injuries, smut (wait for it...), tortellini, unsub revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-12 19:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4491153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissIdaGreen/pseuds/MissIdaGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr Spencer Reid suspects that he may be in love.  Or at least in a sort of infatuation.  When a minor accident thrusts the doctor and the object of his affections together, Spencer sees the possibility of a real relationship.  But like everything in Dr Reid's life, it's unlikely to run smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spilled Coffee

Spencer Reid did not like coffee. It made him jumpy, accelerating his already fraught thought patterns to unsustainable levels, dilating his pupils, making him hyperaware of everything happening around him, and simultaneously too distracted to concentrate properly. On top of all that, he hated the taste. But despite all of this, here he was, a half hour before he was due in at work, sitting at a small table in a coffee shop. He curled his hands around his drink, a paper cup of black, decaffeinated coffee, five sachets of artificial sweetener carefully added to mask the taste. Even so, he choked back each mouthful like a shot, grimacing as the bitter liquid slid down his throat.

He glanced quickly at his watch. It was almost time to head off. His satchel was open on the floor by his ankle. Just as he was about to reach down and fasten its buckles, she appeared. The one he had been waiting for.

Try as he might, he couldn't figure out what it was that attracted him. She was so small, and so shy. Her long hair almost obscured her face, and she walked with her shoulders permanently rounded. Even so, there was no way that he could ever approach her. She frightened him just as much as anyone else. No, strike that, she frightened him much, much more. He had learned, from years and years of strange reactions, of raised eyebrows, of truncated conversations, to let people's opinions slide. Or pretend to at least. He knew that for most people it took a while to get to understand him, to become used to him enough to not be frightened or affronted by his way of speaking, his way of being.  
He was himself, and people needed to accept that. Generally, he had patience enough to wait for them to come around. He remembered what a dear friend had once said to him: "if they think you're too weird, then they don't deserve you." He had come a long way from the terrified, timid teenager he had once been, he had grown in confidence, he had learned to let go of his obsession with others' judgements of him. 

But this was different. He cared. Very, very deeply, about what this girl thought of him. Which was stupid, because he'd never even spoken to her.  
And now here he was, downing a drink he hated, in a place he didn't like, trying intentionally to bump into a woman he'd never spoken to. He was behaving like... like the sort of people he profiled at work. 

The woman was at the counter now, speaking softly to the waiter, so softly that he was leaning in towards her. Spencer felt a stab of jealousy at their closeness. Maybe today was the day. He clenched his fists, took a deep breath, fortified himself. "You have taken on killers. You have had fights, taken punches. You can do this," he thought to himself. Spencer stood up. Just in time to watch her sweep out of the coffee shop.

Spencer sighed. He'd missed her again. Muttering to himself, he grabbed his bag and stomped out of the cafe, throwing the paper cup into the trash as he passed. Stupid, stupid stupid, he repeated to himself as he walked.

Spencer pushed the swinging door roughly out of the way and strode confidently out into the cold. Eyes glued to the ground, he took three purposeful steps before a juddering collision stopped him in his tracks. The woman gave a little gasp as he bumped into her, hard. Spencer raised a confused hand to the spot where their heads had collided and took a step back.

The woman's handbag had been thrown to the ground, along with a cardboard folder, now lying uselessly in a puddle on the sidewalk. As he raised his eyes from the ground, Spencer took in the worst part of the accident. The woman held her arms out in front of her and looked, stunned, at the front of her jacket, black and steaming with spilled coffee.

"Oh, I, um, I'm sorry," Spencer began nervously. "I wasn't even... gosh, I didn't even see you."

He stooped down and began collecting the woman's belongings from off the pavement.

"That's okay," she said automatically, a little edge in her voice. The woman brushed uselessly at the front of her coat, sopping from the spill.

"No, it's really not," Spencer continued. He straightened up, his arms loaded with her possessions. "Let me help you, let me get you another drink. This is all my fault."

"That's not necessary, really," the woman replied. 

Spencer raised his eyes to look at her for the first time since their collision. She was so beautiful. Her blue eyes were narrowed slightly, her red lips drawn into a small frown as she examined the damage to her coat. Her long blond hair fell from under her hat in curls over her shoulders. When she looked at him, making eye contact for the first time, his breath hitched as a shiver ran through his whole body.

Spencer cleared his throat. "No, please. I insist." He turned and held the door of the coffee shop open for the woman. He watched as she hesitated for a moment on the pavement, her mouth still twisted into a frown, a little annoyed at this interruption to her morning routine. Finally, with a quick nod of her head, the woman followed Spencer back inside.

"Just, just sit here a minute," Spencer said distractedly, settling her down at a table, and clumsily dumping his armful of belongings on the tabletop. "I'll be right back." He set off confidently towards the counter, only to hesitate and half turn on his way there. "The same again?" he called.

"Yes, thank you," said the woman.

Spencer turned his back on her to join the line. His head span. What was he going to say? Morgan's advice rang in his ears. "No statistics, kid," he heard him saying. "That is not the way to go."

"Well, what should I do then?" Spencer had asked. 

"It's up to you to guide the conversation, Reid," Morgan had replied. "I've seen you do it enough in the interrogation room, I know you're up to it." 

Spencer had nodded, taking this in.

"And Reid? You could try out some of that magic. Chicks dig that stuff."

Magic. And no statistics. And take control of the conversation.... and... and...

"Sir! What can I get you?" 

Spencer's head snapped up. In his dream he hadn't noticed that he'd shuffled all the way to the front of the line. The cashier was glaring at him impatiently.  
"Oh, um, I'd like, um, an Americano, and a..." Spencer glanced over at the pastries under the glass window to the right of the counter. "A brownie? And also a, erm, a hot chocolate please." 

Spencer returned to the table with his purchases on a plastic tray. On his way over he glanced at the clock - he was going to be late. But just this once, surely that didn't matter. He placed the tray down on the table, sliding the coffee and the brownie over towards the woman, watching him silently, and dragging the hot chocolate (he had decided to definitively give up on coffee) towards him.

"I didn't have this," the woman said, pointing a slender finger at the brownie. Spencer thought dreamily of taking her hand in his and placing the finger, slowly and gently, into his mouth...

He shook his head violently, blushing at the image. "It's, I know, it's to say sorry. Again."

The woman's face softened. "That's very kind of you, but I'm actually allergic to nuts."

Spencer's face fell. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I'll get rid of it," he made a motion to stand up.

"That's okay," she said, grabbing his wrist and gently pulling him back into his seat. Spencer hoped that she hadn't noticed the way her touch immediately made the hairs on his arm stand on end and his pulse speed up. "It was nice of you to do that. My name is Jane." She extended her hand.

He shook it gently, feeling the smoothness of her skin. "I'm Spencer Reid," he replied.

They fell into a slightly awkward silence. Spencer stirred his drink carefully and wondered whether he dared to tell her the real reason that she was in the cafe. He risked sounding like exactly the kind of person he worked so hard every day to catch. A lifetime of experience had taught him that it was not always possible to be entirely open with people.

"Listen," he began carefully. "I've, um, I've often seen you... on my way to work in the mornings. And I..." He trailed off, not knowing exactly how to continue.

"I know," Jane interrupted. "I've seen you, too."

Spencer blushed. "I was just wondering, I mean, I never do anything like this, and if you don't want to, then that's totally fine, but I was just wondering, if you would maybe like, to perhaps... have a drink with me sometime?" He exhaled with a sigh, like a man exhausted by a strenuous effort. He looked at her. The frown had gone. Her face had softened, and she looked even more beautiful than before.

Jane smiled. "I'd love to."


	2. Cognac and Old Books

Spencer Reid arrived twenty minutes early for his... he choked a little on the word, date. He'd always been a little too punctual, arriving a quarter of an hour too early for classes when he had been at school and college, coming into work before the others. Normally he was proud of always being on time. It showed a politeness and a consideration for others which was becoming rarer and rarer. But tonight he would have be glad to cut it a little finer. The extra time seemed only to give him more opportunity for nerves.

It was difficult for him to sit still. He had read the menu three times over, found the five grammatical mistakes it contained, located all the emergency exits and the bathrooms. The waitress had been to his table twice to ask for his order, and now seemed oddly sympathetic, probably convinced that he was going to be stood up. Spencer had ended up telling her not to worry, that he would come to the bar to order when he was ready.

After all, perhaps she was going to stand him up. He didn't know this woman nearly enough to judge her behaviour. Her number was saved to his phone under "Jane" - he didn't even know her last name. And she didn't know him either. Maybe it would be a sensible decision on her part to stand him up. After all, her only experience of what he was like was a single meeting in a cafe where he had inadvertently doused her in scalding coffee. 

Spencer glanced at his watch. It was three and a half minutes since the appointed meeting time. Still she was not here. He shifted in his armchair and cast his eye around the bar. He didn't go out all that much, apart from wind-down drinks with his workmates. He'd asked Prentiss for a recommendation - somewhere quiet, classy. She'd sent him here. A low-ceilinged, wood-panelled bar with deep leather armchairs and soft lighting. It was a nice place. Spencer made a mental note to thank Prentiss. Even if Jane didn't turn up, it had been a sound recommendation.

Spencer turned in his chair to glance at the grandfather clock against the wall by the bar, and caught sight of her. She stood by the door, looking out shyly from under her hat. Spencer stood up and waved. Jane saw him, smiled quickly and tightly, and walked over.

Spencer extended his hand. "I'm so glad you came," he said, smiling.

Jane, looking a little bemused, took his hand and shook it. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "I got caught finishing something at work."

Spencer invited her to sit down in the armchair opposite, and tried not to stare as she settled herself down and removed her coat. She was dressed in a short skirt with tights and a sweater. "That's okay," Spencer replied. "I was worried you weren't going to come. You know, after I threw hot coffee on you and everything."

To Spencer's relief, Jane laughed. Her head fell back, making her hair tumble down around her shoulders, revealing her white throat, her shining smile. The sound was musical, like a peal of bells. Spencer wondered what the hell was happening to him to make him think thoughts like her laugh was a peal of bells. "What can I get you to drink?" he asked.

Jane thought for a moment. "I'll have what you're having," she said, smiling at him.

Spencer nodded and set off towards the bar. He thought back through the menu, every item on it etched into his memory. She would have what he was having. The responsibility was crushing. Should he order something he thought she wanted? Or should he get what he wanted and take her at her word? Was it selfish to impose his drink choice on her? Maybe he would do better to just get two glasses of wine, or champagne, or something like that and be done with it. Or did that look pandering? And why did he care so much? And why were his palms sweating? And... and... 

"What'll it be?" said the barman, waking Spencer from his frenzied thinking. 

"Two cognacs please," he replied automatically. "Actually..." he hesitated, wondering if it was the right decision. 

"Actually...?" the barman pressed impatiently.

Spencer wondered what was going on. Why was he so nervous? He was sweaty-palmed and bumbling like an adolescent. It was awful. "No, just, um, just the cognacs, please," he said, decisively as he could manage.

The barman poured the cognac into two crystal tulips. Spencer picked them up and walked quickly back to the table, setting them down as carefully as he could. He sat in the armchair opposite Jane and pushed one of the glasses towards her.

She picked it up, and sniffed delicately at its contents. "Cognac?" she inquired.

Spencer nodded, suddenly, and he knew quite ridiculously, fearing an explosive rejection. He imagined her flinging the glass' contents all over him before storming out.

"I didn't have you picked as a cognac man," she said, smiling to herself.

Spencer smiled back. "Why is that?" he inquired.

Jane thought for a moment before responding, furrowing her brow. Spencer thought her could see her thoughts evolving. She was wondering how to phrase exactly what she thought without offending him. "Actually," she began carefully, "I sort of imagined you as a non drinker."

Spencer leaned back, smiling. "Yes," he said, "I get that sort of thing a fair bit. At work I'm basically the office mascot."

Jane laughed again, the same peal of bells. It pulled at something inside him. "Mascot?" she prompted.

"Yeah, I guess you could say I'm... atypical for my profession. And I'm still far and away the youngest in the office." He paused, but then quickly decided to pre-empt a question about his job. The FBI wasn't top of his list of ways to begin a first date. "What do you do?" he asked.

Now it was Jane's turn to sigh. Spencer was amazed at the change in her following his question. All of a sudden, her laughing eyes looked uncertain, apprehensive almost. Spencer hoped that he hadn't made a faux pas - could Jane be recently unemployed?

"Don't laugh," she began seriously. "I work as a restorer of antique books and other documents."

Spencer's face split into a large grin. "Really? That's so interesting!" he replied encouragingly.

Jane relaxed at this. Spencer felt a wave of happiness surge through him as she visibly relaxed, taking another sip of her drink. "I'm really glad you think so," she said. "It's a bit of a niche job, but I really love it. I've always loved doing things with my hands, and I've always loved books, so it's kind of a dream job for me to be able to combine the two. If you're interested, I could show you my workshop some time."

"I'd love that," Spencer replied immediately.

"It's so nice to meet people who are actually interested."

She paused again. Took another sip from the glass. Spencer saw the question form in her head before she voiced it.

"What do you do?"

This was it. "I, I actually work for the FBI." he said simply. "Behavioural analysis".

Jane was silent for a moment. To Spencer's horror, her smile was gone, her mouth set in a hard line. The pause was long and awkward. "Seriously?" Jane began. "That's you pickup line? I'm surprised. Who did you learn that from? Or did you come up with it yourself? Probably thought it would work, we're right near the academy after all."

"No, no," Spencer interrupted. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of. "I actually do. Work for them, I mean." He fumbled in the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket and fished out his ID. He flipped open the plastic cover, a practised gesture from hundreds of interviews, hundreds of searches.

Jane grasped the card and squinted at it. She scrutinised the it for a long time before handing it back to him. She sighed. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at him sheepishly. "I just sort of assumed..."

"No problem," Spencer assured her. "It does sound like a lie, I guess." He could have kicked himself. But then again, perhaps he should have known that a relationship which started with spilled coffee could only continue in the same train-wreck style. He wondered how long it would be before she left.

Even so, he was a little taken aback when she drained her glass and placed it decisively down on the table between them. "So," Jane began.

Spencer braced himself. He felt as though he could already hear her making excuses, getting up to leave. He could smell the last cloud of her perfume as she swept away from him, back out into the world, into anonymity. But worse than all that was how much he wanted her to stay. He felt pathetic.

"I need to make up for that," said Jane sheepishly. "Can I show you my office?"

Spencer's heart leap. "Really?"

"Absolutely. Would you like to go now?" 

Spencer drained his glass in a single gulp. 

As it turned out, Jane's workshop was walking distance from the bar. Spencer and Jane toddled out into the cold evening air, their cheeks warmed by the cognac. "Listen," Spencer said, his head spinning from the contact as she bumped into him while walking. "I just want to say sorry for walking into you the other day. And thank you for coming."

Jane smiled at him, deftly slipping a her key into a door leading off the street. "It is an unexpected pleasure, Mr Reid."

"Dr," Spencer corrected gently. 

Jane paused, pushing the door open. "Medical, or philosophical?"

"Philosophical. Chemistry, engineering and mathematics." He followed her down a narrow corridor as he spoke.

Jane flicked a light switch, revealing an old-fashioned, tiled floor leading to a pockmarked wooden door. "All three?" she asked.

"Yes," Spencer replied bashfully. And BAs in psychology, sociology and philosophy."

Jane opened the door and walked forward into the room. "Well, I've got a community college English degree. Welcome to my playground."

She flicked another switch, illuminating the room. The floor was covered with wooden boards, the ceiling was low. On the far wall was a disused fireplace, the mantelpiece piled high with the same old books which covered all available surfaces. Jane grabbed Spencer's hand, sending fresh shivers down his spine, and making his alcohol-flushed cheeks blush even darker.

"This is what I'm working on at the moment," she said eagerly, dragging him over to a large trestle table covered in a mess of leather swatches, paper and assorted knives and burnishers. In the centre of the table, on a wooden stand, a small book stood open. "It's a first edition," she said reverentially. "John Keats, La belle dame sans merci."

Spencer leaned over the book to read the large, dark print, bold on the yellowing pages. He knew the poem by heart, it had been a favourite of his mother, but he nevertheless eagerly focused his eyes on the words. 

"Oh what can ail thee, knight at arms  
Alone and palely loitering?   
The sedge has wither'd from the lake,  
And no birds sing." 

"And no birds sing," Jane repeated, calling Spencer's attention away from the page and back to her face, even more beautiful to him now, illuminated by the dim light of the room's lamps, a blush in her cheeks. "I think it's beautiful."

Spencer swallowed, and ran his tongue over his lips. Did he dare do this? "Yes," he said, "it is." He took Jane's wrist gently and turned her to face him. "Can I...?" he tentatively asked.

Jane nodded, and bit her bottom lip. The flash of her teeth, and the crimson which it brought to her mouth seemed to pull Spencer in like a magnet. Gently, tentatively, he leaned in. Slowly, slowly, he brushed his lips to hers. They were impossibly sweet and soft. Spencer kissed her again, pressing his lips against hers a little longer against hers this time. He reached up to gently hold her face with his hands, feeling the delicate shape of her cheekbones under his fingers.

Jane parted her lips, and Spencer did the same, kissing her more deeply, more urgently. The closer they came to one another, the closer Spencer felt he needed to be, and he responded by wrapping an arm around the small of her back, pressing her gently closer to him. Tentatively, Spencer parted his teeth to deepen yet further the kiss.

The first touch of Jane's tongue elicited a moan from Spencer - a small, involuntary noise of surprise, of shock that something could feel like this, could absorb his mind as completely as this. The racing thoughts which normally plagued him dissolved into nothing. All that mattered to him was her tongue dancing electrifyingly around his, her lips soft and urgent on his, her warm body pressed against his.

Spencer pulled her closer, pressing his hands to her, feeling her fingers in his hair, her legs intertwining with his. Wanting to touch more of her, to know every inch, he trailed kisses from the corner of her mouth down to her white throat, exploring the path of fine, pale skin which led from her lips down to the hollow of her collar bone, a delicious void into which he slipped his tongue, making her shiver.

Spencer was filled with a never before felt desire. He wanted all of a sudden to make her scream. To make her beg. To make her call his name. Not with violence, not the way the people he worked so hard to catch would. He wanted to give her so much pleasure that calling out, screaming how good it was would be all that she could do.

"Spencer," Jane gasped, as he dipped his tongue again into the hollow of her collarbone. The sound of his name, whispered raggedly, desperately, make Spencer in turn moan, the sound muffled by her skin. He kissed his way back up to her mouth, and with one final peck, pulled away.

"Dr Reid," Jane said breathlessly, "we both have work tomorrow."

Spencer knew that he couldn't be disappointed. It was true, and the night had already surpassed all of his expectations. "Jane," he said, "may I see you again?"

She smiled widely, her eyes twinkling in the low light. "Soon, please."

Jane showed Spencer to the door, closing it gently behind him. As he made his way back towards the subway, he thought he could feel the places her lips had touched him. It was almost as if she had burned him. 

But that was far from the worst thing. As he shuffled down the street, Dr Spencer Reid was painfully aware that he was in dire need of a cold shower. He could not wait to see her again.


	3. A Confession and a Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer and Jane meet for lunch in the park. Spencer has some news to deliver, and Jane has a confession to make.

Spencer almost managed to wait a day before calling her. When he arrived home from work on the day following their first date, he broke down and phoned. The hours following the kiss had dragged so much that they felt like weeks. Spencer had dreamed of her. While he was asleep, and more embarrassingly, during his work day. It had made things difficult - meeting the eyes of his co-workers had been a problem, particularly Morgan. Spencer was certain that Morgan would not be able to help profiling the truth out of him, such was his interest in Spencer's love life, and his knowledge of his character.

He had rehearsed the phone call in his head before dialling, but when she answered, and he heard her smooth, light voice coming faintly down the line, all his preparation crumbled. "Will you meet me for lunch in the park?" he asked quickly, looking furtively around him in the dark of his apartment, as though afraid of being overheard.

The musical laugh, clear and tinkling as a bell, came down the line. "Of course, Spencer," she said happily. "What time?"

The meeting point specified, all Spencer had to contend with was the interminable wait, around sixteen hours, he calculated quickly, until they could meet. When he thought of the reason he had to see her though, his smile dimmed. They were leaving the following evening at 4 pm, travelling to work on a case likely to last a week or more. This was the part of Spencer's job most difficult to deal with, for all the profilers. The job had to come first. How could it not, when it was always a question of life and death? It made a life outside the bureau almost impossible. And he had seen people, most painfully Hotch, learn that the hard way.

Spencer strode into the garden, a quiet oasis in the city and headed immediately for their meeting point: a large, old oak tree in the centre of the smooth, green lawn. She was already settled on the grass by its trunk, and she looked so lovely there that Spencer stopped a moment to take her in. She could almost have been a figure in a pastoral painting, a beautiful maiden in a country garden. He hurried over to her. 

"Spencer!" she called. He sat down beside her, and she planted a peck on his cheek.

"It's great to see you," he said, smiling, rummaging about it his satchel for the baguette he had bought at the subway station that morning. He stretched his legs out on the grass and took a deep breath, enjoying the smell of the tree, and the moist grass, and the way it was given an extra electric thrill by the tiny trace of her perfume which he could detect.

"Listen," Jane said through a mouthful of the salad she was eating for her lunch. "I had a really great time with you the other night."

"So did I," Spencer said, trying not to sound too eager. "The best."

Jane looked out over the park. She seemed on the point of saying something, something she was hesitating about. Spencer watched her.

"Hey," he said, "what is it?"

Jane sighed. "I'm worried... that I've done you a disservice."

Spencer's heart sank. She'd met someone else. In the intervening twenty-four hours she had seen someone she liked better. It wasn't surprising to him, it was very much his lot in life. Someone more able, more experienced, less thin and weird. "Yes?" Spencer prompted reluctantly.

"I'm worried that I've invaded your privacy." Jane looked into Spencer's face searchingly, looking for a reaction. "I'm afraid I googled your branch of the bureau. I couldn't quite remember what you said it was called exactly, but I dug around a little, and eventually I found it. And then I was reading all about what you do, and the cases you work."

Spencer sighed. "Look, it's really..."

She cut him off. "No, I mean, it's fascinating. The methods you use. Your team has caught people using the most sophisticated techniques, the tiniest details. It seems like such a holistic way of looking at crime. I mean, you've drawn on knowledge of psychology, of forensics, of jurisprudence, but even of art and literature and cultural history. It's fantastic."

Spencer was confused. He looked at her. She seemed to be racing to get to the important bit, to the part that she had wanted to say all this time. And as to a disservice? So far she had said nothing but praise.

Jane continued. "But I think it must be so difficult. I couldn't get all that much from the Bureau website, but there was a little more in local newspapers and crime sites. I read about some of the cases you've consulted on, and I cannot imagine having to deal with those things in my day to day job. Such awful, awful things."

Spencer felt as sudden outpouring of tenderness towards Jane as he watched her visibly shudder at the thought of the things she had discovered. It was quickly followed by a sudden stab of grief. It was his fault that she had been exposed to those things.

"And the worst," she paused, rephrasing with a little shake of her head, "well, what do I know, but what seems so horrible is that by the time you arrive, it's already too late. When they call in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, it's because people are already gone. Most often, multiple people. I can't imagine how difficult that must be."

Spencer wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her there, but didn't quite dare. The truth was, he had his own news to share. Carefully, watching Jane's face to make sure it was okay, Spencer took her hand.

"You didn't invade my privacy. But the truth is that my job... it doesn't leave much room for anything else. Actually, I kind of have something I need to tell you."  
Jane nodded, encouraging.

"I have to go away for a while. We've got a case starting, and we're actually leaving this afternoon. I'll be gone a week or more, I think."

He watched to gage her reaction.

"I know it's... I know that we only just..."

"It's okay, Spencer." Jane said. "I know." She gave his fingers a little squeeze, and then let go, picking up her backpack and unzipping it. "I actually have something for you. A gift."

Spencer watched as she rummaged around in the backpack, before finally pulling out a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. She placed it gently in Spencer's lap. "Open it," she said.

Spencer picked up the parcel, carefully untied the twine and pulled away the paper. It was a book. Small, bound in red leather. The title was clearly embossed on the front. La belle dame sans merci. Spencer picked up the book and held it carefully in his hands. "I thought that you were working on this," he said.

"The client I was restoring it for actually found another edition, more valuable and in better condition than this one. He said he was no longer interested, and that I should scrap it. But I thought that maybe you would like it. To take with you on cases."

Spencer opened it, flicked through the thick pages, the single poem printed in large, dark letters. He ran his fingers along the smooth paper of the marbled front pieces, he felt the stitching beneath the leather of the cover.

"I love it," he said simply, before leaning in to kiss Jane gently on the mouth.

She pulled away quickly. "I'm sorry Spencer," she whispered against his cheek, so close that he could feel her skin move as she spoke. "I have to get back. A new client is bringing in a document in half an hour."

Spencer nodded that he understood. In another moment, Jane had already balled up the garbage from her lunch, closed her backpack and was standing, looking down at him. 

"Stay safe," she said quietly. "And keep me posted on what happens."

"Of course," Spencer said, already missing the warmth of her hand, the softness of her lips.

"And call me as soon as you get back!" Her final message was called casually over one shoulder, as Jane retreated already towards the wrought iron gates of the park.

Spencer sighed deeply as he watched her go. Normally it was so easy to leave Virginia. The promise of a new case with all its interest and intrigue was plenty of motivation to head off to wherever it was that the horrible thing was happening. The challenge was usually coming back: putting all of the emotions and ideas of a case into a box, separating yourself off from the experience to come home properly. But this time, Spencer knew that things would be different. He already missed her.

He flipped to the last page of the little book. He read the words there:

"And I awoke and found me here  
On the cold hill's side."


	4. Dinner for Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner at Jane's house has intriguing consequences.

The case ended up lasting just over a week, and it was as every bit as harrowing as Spencer had feared. What they had all assumed all along to be the abduction and murder of an eleven-year-old girl had turned out to be something much darker. The unsub had been identified as her older brother. It was cases like this which made the job so difficult to do at times. The satisfaction that the team, and the family of the victim, usually felt at bringing a criminal to justice was entirely erased. Not only had this family lost their daughter, but through his guilt, they had lost their son too.

The whole team had been subdued on the trip home. No joking around, no card games, just silence. Each one of them was wrapped in their own thoughts. Spencer often thought that the time they spent in transit to and from cases was probably very useful. It allowed them to separate their own lives from the case, and to have time to depressurize afterwards. This time though, Spencer was impatient to be back on the ground. Much more than quiet time alone to contemplate the horrors he had just witnessed, he wanted to feel connected to something else - something whole and good.

He wanted to see Jane.

It was too late when they arrived for him to call or text her, too late to do anything much except return home and crash. Hotch had however declared the following day a rest for everyone, provided no urgent new cases came through. When he arrived home, Spencer laid his phone carefully on the nightstand, knowing what his first action would be the next morning.

"Hey, I'm back. Can I see you? Spencer." He had gotten into the habit of keeping text messages with Jane short. This was a challenge, as generally, Spencer veered into the dramatically verbose. His reasons were double: keeping them short saved his thumbs (the sheer volume of text messages they exchanged was starting to pose a serious repetitive strain risk) and at the same time to save himself from becoming too eager. Morgan had advised him once to treat 'em mean to keep 'em keen, and although Spencer took this advice with a grain of salt, he knew that it didn't look good to come across all stalker-like.

The reply buzzed in about an hour later. "Great! Dinner at my place? 7?"

Spencer confirmed, Jane sent the address, and all that was left for him to do was endure the intervening hours.

He tried to read but couldn't concentrate. He tried editing a research paper he had to hand in a week or so later, but had the same problem. Spencer ended up spending a good deal of the afternoon pacing around the apartment, rearranging things and half-heartedly cleaning. When he could stand that no longer, he spent what he regarded as an embarrassingly long time getting ready. He hesitated over clothing choices, was extra careful in the shower, brushed, flossed and rinsed scrupulously, shaved, and then stood before the mirror wondering why it was that his hair almost never looked like he'd done it that way on purpose. Finally, it was time to leave.

Jane lived in a neat little terrace house not too far from the workshop where they had ended up on their first date, and where they had - Spencer still had to remind himself that it had really happened - kissed. It was narrow, not more than three metres across, but quite deep away from the street, and three storeys tall. Spencer took a breath, smoothed a hand over his hair, checked the knot of his tie, and rang the bell.

He waited, listening for footsteps, watching for movement behind the frosted glass, and then, all of a sudden, there she was, standing in the doorway, a flour-dusted apron across her dress, her hair falling beautifully from a ribbon at the back of her head. Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but found himself immediately to be the recipient of a welcome kiss.

"I missed you," Jane said cheerfully, pulling him inside.

Her house was welcoming; warm and comfortable after the chill of outside, filled with yellow light. All of the furnishings were old-fashioned and worn-looking, the sort of thing people hunt thrift-stores for. Spencer could smell something cooking.

Jane took his coat and led him though to a bright combined kitchen and dining room. The ceiling was high, and the room was neatly furnished with a sideboard, a kitchen counter, and a scrubbed wooden table. Jane walked confidently into the room and stood behind the counter. 

"I'm afraid I'm still working on dinner, but would you like something to drink? I'm going to have some of this," she said, gesturing towards a bottle of red wine, uncorked and waiting.

"That would be great," Spencer replied, and watched as Jane deftly poured out two glasses.

"To returning home," Jane said, raising her glass. Spencer smiled and raised his.

Jane turned her attention back to the cooking, stirring something on the stove which looked like a kind of sauce, and glancing into another pan where something simmered.

"Can I help you out with anything?" He asked her.

"No, no. That's fine." She said cheerfully. "I like cooking. I hope you'll like eating this. But you can talk to me while I work. You could tell me about what you've been doing," Jane paused and glanced up warily. "Or not."

Spencer sighed. "It's not really very good dinner conversation. It's not that I don't want to tell you, you can ask me about anything. It's just that it might... put a dent in the mood."  
Jane nodded. She turned around and reached into the fridge behind her, pulling out a tray of carefully rolled and folded pastry. She lifted up the top sheet and laid it down on the floured benchtop.

"What are we having?" Spencer asked, watching her.

"Spinach and ricotta tortellini with a tomato sauce," Jane answered proudly. "I wish I could tell you that my Mama taught me, but my mother is from deepest, darkest New Orleans. I went travelling after I graduated from college, and I ended up staying right above this cooking school in Florence. It was really tiny, run by this crazy old Italian woman, and every night it smelled so good that I knew I had to go to a class. I was on a bit of a budget, so I practically had to stop eating for a week to afford it, but I'm so glad I did. After a week of ham sandwiches, that homemade tortellini was the best thing I'd ever eaten. I don't think I make it as well as her, but I hope you'll like it all the same."

Spencer sipped his wine and leaned against the counter. It was so nice to listen to her talk, so nice to be in her warm, bright little house like this, watching her fingers spoon filling onto circles of pastry, and then deftly fold them into shape. Everything, her face, her voice, the stories she told seemed to endear her more to him. He wanted to smile at everything she said and did. Jane turned around to the pot on the stove, carefully tasting the sauce.

"It smells delicious," Spencer said, "lucky me, a girlfriend who cooks."

Jane put the spoon down and turned to look at him. "Girlfriend?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Spencer filled with panic. He had to work hard to resist the urge to gulp down the rest of his wine before answering. Had that been a massive mistake? In reality, he hadn't even thought about it - the words had just slipped out. Maybe it had been a mistake. After all, who was he to know how these things worked?

"Was that... was that not okay?" he asked tentatively. "Look, I'm..."

Jane smiled. "Dr Reid," she said seriously, narrowing her eyes, hands on hips, staring him down, "that was perfectly okay." She leaned over the counter to give him a peck on the lips.

When everything was ready, Jane dished up the meal while Spencer carefully set cutlery and water glasses on the small table. Jane carried the loaded plates over, and they sat down.

"This looks delicious," Spencer said honestly, refilling Jane's and his own wine glasses.

"I hope it will be," Jane replied. "Bon appétit."

The tortellini was really, really good. As they ate and talked, Spencer thought about how comfortable he felt, how interested in one another they were, and how close he was to Jane. He knew that if he moved his foot just a few inches forward, it would be brushing hers. He marvelled at how beautiful she looked, sitting there across from him, a blush on her cheeks, and a little flour clinging to the skin on her neck.

After the meal, Jane produced dessert, and then offered Spencer a coffee.

He took a breath, hoping that she would find what he had to say funny and endearing, and not stalkerish or scary. "Listen, um, there's something I have to tell you." he said. "I actually really, really hate coffee. Like, that stuff tastes like sadness."

A puzzled look came into Jane's face. "But you were in the coffee shop... every day... for about a month."

Spencer sighed. "I know. But I was, I was waiting for you, actually. I was hoping I'd bump into you."

Jane's expression stayed puzzled. "You bought a coffee, every morning for a month so that you could see me for about ten minutes."

Spencer drained his wine glass. "Yes. The funny thing is, you're meant to be able to change taste preferences with around twenty to twenty-five trails of the flavour concerned. So theoretically, I should now like coffee, since I drank 33 Americanos over a period of around forty to forty-five days. This would make my tastebuds -"

Jane threw back her head and laughed. It was the same musical sound that Spencer had come to know and love. She laughed and laughed, until her eyes brimmed with happy, shining tears. When she finally regained control, wiping her eyes delicately and catching her breath, Jane's response was very simple. "Cognac then?"

They took their glasses through into the lounge room. This space too served multiple purposes. There was a large, comfortable-looking couch, a rocking chair off to one side, and a low coffee table in the centre sitting on a worn and faded Persian rug. But opposite this area was a large wooden workbench, with a similar setup to the one Spencer had seen in the workshop. Jane did not seem eager to show this particular area to Spencer, guiding him instead quickly to the couch.

While Spencer sat down, Jane remained standing, setting her glass down on the table. "I just have to go to the bathroom, I'll be one minute," she said, before leaving the room.

Profiler's habit, perhaps, but Spencer was never able to resist a mystery, however small. If he were a cat, curiosity would have killed him long ago. The minute Jane was safely out of the room, Spencer stood from the couch and made his way carefully over to the workbench. 

Lying on the tabletop were six colour plates, clearly hand painted with ink. They bore all the hallmarks of Japanese art of around three hundred years ago. Three of the six were brighter and more visible than the others. Jane must have been in the process of restoring them. The most surprising thing about the prints wasn't their artistic style, nor the work Jane had done, however. It was their content. Spencer Reid stood silently and contemplated six highly explicit works of erotic art.

He was still staring at them when Jane got back. She walked up behind him, and it was only at the last moment, the split second before he felt her against him, her hand on his shoulder, that he knew she was there.

"Are these..." Spencer trailed off.

"Originals. I'm restoring them for a client." Jane's tone was businesslike, but Spencer thought that he detected a little amusement lurking beneath.

"They're very..."

"Explicit. Yes. These are pages from, well, from a sort of manual. For couples."

"Ah." Reid nodded. "Wow. Some of these..." he pointed mutely at the fourth, a particularly unlikely looking contortion.

"Yes," Jane said, moving around to stand beside him. "But this one," she pointed to number two, "looks very achievable to me."


	5. Very Achievable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer and Jane retreat to the bedroom.

Spencer's eyes widened as a thrill went through his whole body. Had she really just said that? Quickly and clumsily, he walked back over to the coffee table, grabbing his glass of cognac, mostly in order to have something to hold in his hands, to look at least a little occupied. "Does it?" he stammered, "does it, um, look achievable?" 

Across the room, Jane was looking at him, a slight smile playing about her lips. "I rather think it does," she said quietly, the nervous whisper he remembered from the days in the coffee shop, but which he had not seen since. She walked slowly towards him. Spencer almost felt tempted to take a step back, to retreat away from her, but even if he'd really tried, he couldn't have. The edge of the couch was pressed against the back of his legs.

Jane grabbed his cognac glass and pulled it out of his hand. She took a large gulp, swallowed, and set it down on the coffee table. Spencer watched her, transfixed, a little apprehensive, and - if he was honest - pretty damn excited.

Jane placed a hand on each of Spencer's shoulders and gently pressed until he was sitting in the middle of the couch looking up at her. Then, she stepped closer and sat down across Spencer's legs. He felt his eyes widen, he jaw slacken a little in surprise. Spencer's mind was racing. Did he look as nervous as he felt? Part of him wanted to reach out for her, to touch her everywhere, to pull her to him until he couldn't tell what was him and what was her. But at the same time, he worried that it would be too much for him, too much to take in and process at one time.

With a little shake of his head, Spencer reached up and took Jane's face in his hands. She was so close that he could have counted her eyelashes, so close that he could see himself reflected in the flawless black of her pupils. He found that his hands fitted perfectly around her head, his thumbs nestling neatly just in front of her ears, his fingers feeling the curve of the back of her skull, down to the top of her gently curving neck. It was almost as though they had been created to fit together.

Spencer took a deep breath, and then kissed her. This time, there was no tentative beginning, there was no gentle figuring things out. Spencer and Jane kissed with passion, their mouths pressing desperately together. Spencer marvelled at how soft her lips were, at how warm - almost hot - the inside of her mouth was. He heard himself moan slightly as the tip of her tongue swept thrillingly across his, making him shudder, thrilling him deep inside himself.

He released her head and wrapped his arms around her waist, hoisting her closer to him, feeling the warmth of her body against him. Jane responded my tangling her fingers into his hair, with a pressure which was just beyond the edge of gentleness. The sudden thrilling mixture of pleasure and the threat of pain elicited another low moan from Spencer, and made him pull her still closer.

With one final, thrilling flash of her tongue, Jane pulled away from Spencer. His eyes fluttered open in surprise. Disentangling one hand from his hair, Jane pressed its palm flat against the fabric of Spencer's shirt. He watched, wide eyed, as she dragged the hand down his chest, her fingers slightly flexed, so that he felt her fingernails through the cotton. Jane continued all the way down to the level of Spencer's belt. 

He tensed all his muscles, knowing what was going to happen. Torturously slowly, Jane's hand reached down below. She placed her palm against him, moving it slowly back and forth. Spencer gasped at the pressure and had to concentrate to keep his hips still.

With some effort, he tore his gaze away from her pale hand, and looked into her face.

"Well, Dr Reid," she said. "If that's how you feel, perhaps we should adjourn to the bedroom."

Spencer's eyes rolled back into his head as she changed the movement of her hand a little. "I.. um..." he stammered, trying to remember how to speak. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

Jane paused. "Are you sure that you want to?"

Spencer dragged his eyes open. "There is nothing..." his speech was punctuated by little gasps, her hand still mercilessly massaging him, "I would like more."

"Let's go then," Jane said simply, standing up from the couch. Spencer wanted to cry out at the sudden - far too sudden - absence of her body, but Jane didn't give him a chance. She took his hand and pulled him up off the couch, dragging him into the hallway.

Together they climbed the carpeted staircase up to the third floor of the narrow little house. Spencer followed Jane through the wooden door of her bedroom. It was small and cosy, like everything else in the house. Lit with two floor lamps, one sitting by her bed, and one by a small desk in the corner.

Spencer wasted no time. He pulled Jane to him and crushed her lips against his. They broke apart and were instantly undressing one another. Both of them kicked off their shoes, Spencer also awkwardly pulling his feet out of his mismatched socks, trapping the toe of the one to be removed under his other foot.

Jane pulled his corduroy jacket roughly over his shoulders and got to work on his tie as he reached around her back to remove the striped apron she was still wearing from making dinner. Jane deftly undid the buttons down the front of Spencer's shirt and pushed it to the ground. The comparative cool of the bedroom air made him shiver a little, only increasing his excitement. He found the zipper which ran down the back of Jane's dress and carefully pulled it down. She shrugged her way of out of the slinky blue fabric, letting it fall to the ground.

Spencer, now wearing only his trousers, stood in front of Jane, not quite daring to let his eyes depart from her face. Logically, he knew that if they had made it this far, it would probably be okay to look, and hell, did he want to look, but he still wasn't quite sure if he dared.

"Spencer," Jane breathed quietly, clasping his hands in hers and pressing them to her body, giving him the permission he had needed. It was like something released inside of him, and he walked her quickly over to the bed. Jane pulled Spencer close and kissed him deeply, her fingers clinging to him tightly. He traced kisses from her mouth down to her collarbone, exploring the smoothness of her fine skin. Becoming bolder, he ran his hands up her sides, feeling the curve of her hip joining into the dip of her waist, trailing higher and higher, up to where he could feel her ribs, like the delicate bars of a birdcage, shifting under her skin with every breath.

Jane lifted herself off the bed a little and quickly opened the clasp of her bra, pulling it over her arms and casting it aside. Spencer, now too taken in the heat of what was happening, let his hands roam over all of Jane's body. She writhed underneath him.

"Spencer... please," she gasped, her breath short, and fumbled at the button on his trousers.

Spencer stopped dead. "Listen, Jane. I'm um... I'm a little out of practise, I don't know if..."

"Shhh," Jane whispered. "It's okay. Just please can you...?"

She had finally worked the button undone, and Spencer moaned a little at the sudden release of pressure on what had become a very sensitive area indeed. He sat up a moment to tug everything off. 

"Here," Jane said, handing him a small foil packet.

Spencer saw to himself, and then, gently as he could, pulled Jane's lace underwear down her legs, tossing it across the room.

Carefully, Spencer eased himself inside her. The guttural moan which escaped his lips at the sensation matched with the sounds Jane was making. Immediately, they both started to move, Spencer thrusting deliciously in and out of Jane, who moved her own hips in time with him, her hands wrapped around him, pulling her closer.  
Spencer buried his head in the skin between Jane's neck and shoulder, moaning wordlessly, his whole mind filled by the glorious sensation of being with her. And the sounds which she was making served only to push him further, to amplify his own feeling.

Their pace quickened, their breathing together became more ragged, until finally, with everything building to an unbearable crescendo, Spencer found his release, his moans muffled by the bedclothes. He felt Jane go tense beneath him a few seconds later, moaning too.

Carefully, they disentangled themselves, panting, and lay side by side on Jane's bed, looking at the ceiling.

"Oh my God," Spencer breathed. He turned his head to look at Jane who was smiling beside him.

"That was astonishing, Dr Reid," she said. "Can we go again please?"


	6. Accidental Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following their first night together, Spencer has an admission that he just can't keep to himself.

When Spencer awoke the following morning, he didn't immediately know where he was. For one disorientating moment, he glanced wildly around the room, looking for clues which could tell him how he had ended up here, in this foreign bed, in a strange house... naked.

He lifted his hands up to rub the sleep from his eyes and brushed the side of his arm against something warm, something breathing. Startled, he turned quickly, and then everything came back. She was still asleep, only just stirring, the print of the sheets still in her cheek, her blond hair falling haphazardly across her pillow. He remembered it all. The dinner, the conversation, and then the very expert seduction, followed by some pretty great sex.

Carefully, like as though he was frightened that she was an illusion that the slightest disturbance would break, Spencer ran his thumb down her cheek, feeling its softness. The small touch was enough to rouse her from her slumber. Her eyes fluttered open.

"Morning, sexy," Spencer said. He leaned in and kissed her deeply on the lips, wrapping his arms around her still-bare body.

"Good morning, Dr Reid," Jane said, returning his embrace. "I don't want to ruin this lovely moment, but I am actually starving."

Spencer laughed. "We did have a pretty athletic evening."

"That we did. So now, to French toast. You are cooking."

Spencer sat up. "I um, I can't actually cook."

Jane laughed again, sitting up herself, and swinging her legs off the bed. "Stay cool. I'll talk you through it."

Wearing only enough clothing to be decent, Spencer and Jane wandered into the kitchen. 

"Alright, stand there," Jane said, swinging open the fridge door. She bent over to rummage around on a lower shelf, drawing Spencer's attention to the backs of her legs, and other places. 

"Catch!" she called, throwing an egg at him. Unprepared, he fumbled it, and it smashed on the floor at his feet. 

"Why did you throw an egg at me?" Spencer said, looking at the burst yolk spreading on the floor between his feet. 

"Keeping things interesting. Are you ready this time?" she asked, flinging another egg. This time, Spencer was prepared, and managed to catch it, and the second one which followed it.

"Okay, grab a bowl from the cupboard under the counter, grab a fork from in the drawer, and start beating."

Carefully and hesitantly, Spencer cracked the eggs into a bowl and set about beating the eggs. While he did that, Jane cut slices off a loaf of bread, and sloshed milk into Spencer's egg mixture.

"Tell you what," Jane said, "I'll fry them."

Spencer stood just by her elbow as she flipped the slices of egg-soaked bread into a frying pan of melted butter. He slid his hand around her waist, pressing his cheek against the smooth skin of her bare shoulder. "I'm sorry that I don't know how to cook," he said, brushing his lips against her. "But I appear to be learning a lot with you."

They sat down at the table to eat their breakfast, their legs intertwined beneath the tabletop. Spencer thought back to the night before, when he had known how close her legs were to his, but had nevertheless not dared to move forward to be in contact with her. He couldn't help smiling to himself with a little satisfaction at all they had done, at all he dared now to do.

He reached out and touched her hand. And then he said it. In the seconds of silence following, Spencer thought about how he had really not meant to let it slip out. He told himself that he had been going to say something entirely different but that it had been there on the tip of his tongue, and that it had escaped him despite himself.

"I love you," Spencer said.

Jane's face went blank. Spencer tried not to let the fear which had suddenly invaded him show in any way as he waited, first a small, acceptable pause, and then more and more, until the silence stretched out like a gulf, too long, far too long. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Jane took a breath and spoke.

"You... you love me?"

Spencer, robbed of all the easy certainty he had felt moments ago, fought to keep his voice even as he replied. "Yes. I think I do."

When Jane spoke again, she was entirely serious. "I love you too."

It was at exactly that moment that Spencer's phone started buzzing.


	7. Poison-Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spencer recieves some unusual correspondence.

Spencer stood frozen just inside the door of his apartment, holding the letter in his hands. They all got them - the poison pen letters. Some from unsubs themselves, but mostly from their family members, and sometimes even from the family members of victims. Spencer knew, as did everyone in the BAU, that anyone coming into contact with them was going through what would probably be the worst period of their lives. 

For those who were caught, there was frequently anger, hatred even, directed at the members of the team, and at law enforcement in general. Often, of course, they were angry because they had been caught. Their reign of terror, their grandiose delusions, their twisted gratification came to an end, and they found themselves al of a sudden looking down the barrel of a long prison sentence, or even their own deaths. Enough to make anybody vindictive. Still others were angry because they felt that they hadn't had the recognition they deserved. Disappointed in their treatment, their lack of media coverage, they often lashed out at the people they saw as being responsible for it, one final little try at recognition.

Victim's family members could often blame them for losing another person. It frequently came very close, minutes, seconds between saving someone, or discovering another body. They did their best, of course they did, but they would never, never be able to save everyone. And how could you ask people to be understanding? It was no good to say to a father "we're sorry that we couldn't save them, but we saved others?" It was no comfort, none at all.

Spencer's letters were hardly the worst of them. As it was so often with things like this, it was the female members of the team who had the really vile stuff to deal with. He had seen a couple of the letters they had received, and that stuff was enough to make your blood curdle. It was probably a product of the sort of people they were forced to interact with on a daily basis, but Spencer knew, he had seen, that more often than not, the unsubs big interest was violence, physical and psychological, against women. They needed their strength even more than he did.

This letter though, it was familiar. He had known what it was the moment he'd seen it peeking out from under the rest of his mail. The yellow envelope, addressed with green ink was a sight he'd seen twenty-three times before over the past two years. Ever since the arrest and subsequent death of a man named Elliot Neumann. The letters themselves were nothing new. What was new, what made Spencer freeze, standing immobile in his own hallway, was the address.

In the past, the poison pen letters had always been sent to him care of Quantico. But this... this had come straight to his residential address. This means that the man - he knew it was a man, if not exactly who - knew now where he lived.

Spencer quickly dumped his satchel and the rest of the mail on the carpet by the door and walked quickly into the small kitchen. He put the envelope carefully down in the table and flicked on the light. Opening a kitchen drawer, Spencer pulled out a pair of blue latex gloves from the box he kept there. Crime scene gloves, for avoiding contamination.  
his hands suitably covered, Spencer settled himself down at the table and very carefully opened the letter.

Just like all the others, this letter was written in a meticulously neat, looping script, bold black ink (a fountain pen and not a biro), on thin, lined notepaper. He unfolded it, spread it on the table, and began to read.

"Dear Dr Reid,

Still plugging away at your misguided work I see. How long can this go on? A little honesty with yourself would I think save others from losing everything in the way that Elliot did - and in the way that I have. 

My letters to the BAU went unanswered, as I suspected they would, but I know that you received them. Perhaps they had little effect on you. A man so accustomed to carnage probably has little incredulity left for such trifles as simple letters, but I would hope that this most recent development gives you a little more pause.

My demands remain the same. In recognition of your dangerous failures as an analyst, and as a law enforcement officer, I would ask you to resign with immediate effect from you employment with the Bureau, publicly admit yourself to be a failure, and distance yourself from your previous intellectual and other achievements, of which you have been deemed undeserving.

The more obscure you can make your life, the safer from me, and from retribution you will be."

So far, so formulaic. Spencer had received this letter many, many times, with only very slight variations. The first time, it had spooked him a little, but the people concerned with such things at the Bureau had assured him that the profile of that particular letter showed that it wasn't in any way a threat.

Spencer read on:

"In the past, you have shown yourself to be unwilling to accept my demands, or indeed to even acknowledge our correspondence. But I hope that what I have to say now will convince you to take me and these letters a little more seriously."

Spencer swallowed, running his tongue over his chapped lips.

"As even you can deduce from this latest note, I am now perfectly aware of your place of residence. I would also like to inform you that I am keeping a very close eye on your whereabouts and movements. Furthermore, I now have just as much power of you as you once had over me. And much like yourself, Dr Reid, I will not hesitate to use it.

Love is a weakness, and I know all about your little friend. Bear this in mind when you next think about ignoring me.

Yours."

Spencer's blood ran cold. With trembling hands, he placed the letter back down on the tabletop. The letter writer, whoever it was, knew about Jane. And wasn't, it seemed, going to be squeamish about involving her.

Spencer remembered only too well what had happened to Hotch and Haley. Without the utmost care, the job could swallow you whole. This was a sacrifice which Spencer had long ago resigned himself to. But it was not up to him to make that decision for other people. He could gamble his own life, but Jane's was quite another matter.

Spencer weighed up his options. He could go to the Bureau with this letter. That carried certain risks. He would probably be given a protection detail, and Jane would probably be removed to safety. He could try to protect her himself, but that would be even less secure. In one scenario, Jane lost all her freedom, her friends, her life. In another, he failed, and she lost everything. There seemed to be only one thing to do.

Spencer drew his mobile out of his pocket and dialled Jane's number.

"Hello!" came her cheerful voice down the line.

"Hey, um, I need to speak to you."

"Okay, speak away."

"No, um, in person."

"Alright, well, we could meet up tomorrow..."

"Now. Can I come over?"

Jane was taken aback, but didn't refuse.

He had to do it in person, that much was for sure. He knew that whoever was sending the letters would be sure to follow him, or to at least get wind of where he was going.   
Hopefully they would observe the scene. Spencer hoped that he would be able to sell it well enough to protect her. 

But it was also a question of respect. There was no question of doing it over the phone. It had to be in person, however much it was going to hurt. Spencer made his way over to her place as quickly as possible. Within an hour, he was there.

As he walked in the door, Jane tried to greet him with a kiss. Spencer, already hating himself for what he was about to do to Jane, and to himself, withdrew from the kiss. Jane narrowed her eyes.

"What's wrong, Spencer?" she asked.

Spencer licked his lips and ran his hands over his face, gathering strength to say it. "Listen, Jane, I've had a great time with you, but I think that we should stop seeing each other."

Jane looked at him blankly. "I'm sorry?"

"I don't think that we should meet up anymore. I don't think that we should be in contact."

She looked intently into his face, trying to tell if he was being serious or not. Spencer met her gaze as best he could.

"Excuse me?"

"I think," he said, "that we should break up."

Jane stepped back away from him. "What? What are you saying? Last time I saw you, we were sitting half naked at the breakfast table, and you told me that you loved me. Loved me, Spencer."

There was nothing he could say. He let her speak.

"I don't understand how we can go from that to this in four days. Am I missing something?"

Her expression started to change. She was going slowly from angry to pitying. She stepped closer again, raising up a hand to brush Spencer's cheek. He went in for the kill.  
"I only said that to manipulate you. I liked you, I desired you, and I used a line. That's all."

The slap was quick and blinding across his face. "Why would you say that when it's not true?" Jane said, her eyes pooling with tears. 

Spencer ran a hand across his burning cheek, thinking how thoroughly her deserved the blow, and how little it hurt compared to saying the things he had to say. "Because it's true. I wanted you, I got you, we're done."

And with that, Spencer walked out of the house. Once he was outside, all he wanted to do was give in to the urge to cry, the thick, painful sensation that felt like something trying to force its way up his throat. But he was aware of his audience. Spencer prayed that the letter-writer was watching. Then he squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and started off down the street, away from the home of the woman he loved.


	8. Amours Perdues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a rought case, Spencer and Jane meet for the first time since their breakup.

Another week, another case - but this one unlike the others. The job was dangerous, that was a given. But everyone on the team, and the local law enforcement who came with them to help, was very professional, and generally they could come home from a case in much the same shape as they'd left in.

This had not been one of those times. Spencer thought back over the events, now almost a week ago, as he strolled around town, wrapped tightly in his coat. This was the first time he'd left the house since arriving back, and he was attracting more than a few quizzical looks from passersby. The unsub had this time proven particularly difficult to catch. The rest of the team had been sent off on a lead - which had turned out to be false - leaving Spencer alone in the headquarters, staring at a map.

Something, he knew, was wrong. He was sure that the lead the team were following wouldn't come to anything, and yet he couldn't put his finger on why, or where the unsub would head next. He took a sip of his coffee (he had resorted to caffeine to stay awake), grimacing at its bitter taste. When he glanced back at the map, it was all there, as clear as day. He could hardly believe that it had seemed so difficult, when in reality, it had been so very simple.

The unsub was heading to his stepdaughter's house. She was to be the next victim. Spencer was on the road like a shot. He called through to the rest of the team, telling them where he was headed, asking them to come as soon as they could. He should wait for them, he knew, but time was of the essence. He had no choice. He headed straight for the address.

Once there, Spencer had done a standard forced entry, and from there, everything had gone wrong. The unsub had caught him from behind, disarmed him, and set about beating him to death. The only reason that he hadn't succeeded was that the team had arrived soon after, and taken him out.

Although very painful at the time, now Spencer's injuries looked far worse than they were. His face was fairly bruised, which attracted plenty of stares, and he had a scar across one cheek. He was limping very slightly, and had a cracked rib, and more yellowing bruises under his clothing. Really, he thought that he could now be back at work, although he was having flashbacks and nightmares a little more frequently than he was willing to admit. He was overly sensitive to loud noises, sudden movements. Actually, he was kind of crumbling. But he wasn't going to let anyone at work know that. Hotch had been very firm about the two weeks off he had been given. There were counselling appointments every three days, and two more checkups with a medical doctor to be gotten through before he would be declared fit for service.

Spencer swung into the supermarket and grabbed a basket. He didn't particularly like shopping, and also didn't like to keep too much food in his apartment. More often than not, he ended up throwing things out. With a schedule as unpredictable as his, it was very difficult to plan meals ahead of time. But with all this time off, and only three lemons, a snack-sized tub of yoghurt and a tube of long-life salsa left in his fridge, it was time to brave the supermarket. 

He wandered listlessly from aisle to aisle, grabbing articles as though at random and dropping them into a basket. He had a vague notion that he needed more washing up liquid, but he wasn't too sure, so he took a small bottle just to be on the safe side. He thought that he probably looked very suspicious, wandering aimlessly through the aisles, giving little furtive, frightened glances to everyone he passed. Being around such a large crowd so soon after what had happened was still difficult. Just as he was turning out of the cleaning products aisle, preparing to head on to dairy, Spencer almost collided with someone.

He looked up. It took him a few seconds to understand. It was Jane. For a while, they looked at each, staring with twin, shocked expressions. 

Jane broke the silence. "Oh my goodness, Spencer. What happened to you?"

Just then, a woman in the aisle behind him dropped a glass jar on the floor. Spencer ducked wildly at the noise, his free hand leaping up to protect his face and head. He could feel his heart beating fast enough to tear itself apart, his breathing becoming restricted, as though an iron cage had clamped shut around his ribcage, a wave of nausea coursed through him. 

I am having a panic attack, Spencer thought to himself, trying to calm down his breathing, to bring his heart rate under control by sheer force of will. "Could we step outside?"   
Spencer choked out, "I need some air."

Jane hesitated for a moment, but looking at Spencer's face (he was completely aware that he looked awful) she agreed. They abandoned their shopping and walked together out of the supermarket. Jane knew that something was going on with Spencer. "Can I do anything?" she said anxiously.

"No, no. I just need, a moment," Spencer said, starting to slowly pace along the sidewalk outside the supermarket, waiting for the panic to subside. Eventually, when his heart had slowed, and his breathing had become more regular, Spencer walked back over to her. 

"What was that?" Jane asked.

Spencer didn't really want to tell her. It felt like an admission of weakness. "It was um... it was an anxiety attack."

"Are you going to be okay?" 

Spencer sighed. "I might actually just have to go home I think."

Jane glanced back at the supermarket, at her abandoned shopping. "Look, can I come with you? I think we need to talk."

Spencer, in spite of himself, was tempted to refuse. He felt horrible about what he had said the last time they'd seen one another, but then again, he'd been forced to do it. He'd done it for her, and it had hurt him. "Yes."

Back in Spencer's apartment, Jane sat him down at the little table in the kitchen and bustled about making tea. Spencer had protested at first, feeling a poor host, telling her that she wouldn't be able to find anything. But Jane was having none of it. After opening four cupboards, she found the mugs, and poured out two steaming cups of tea, setting one down in front of Spencer, and wrapping her hands around the other.

"Spencer, I have two questions. I think you know what they are. The first one is this: what the hell happened to you?"

Spencer took a deep breath. "It's um, it's really okay. Looks far worse than it is. I'm um, it happened at work."

"Spencer," Jane said, becoming a little more exasperated. "Just tell me."

"I, um, I was..." Spencer was surprised to feel his throat closing over threateningly as he spoke. Thinking about what had happened was now fine, but talking about it was threatening to undo him. He didn't really want to cry in front of Jane. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his fingers against his eyelids. He swallowed, willing his throat to relax. "I was attacked by someone we were investigating. It was sort of my fault I guess, I didn't wait for backup, I went in on my own."

"And he hit you?" Jane said, her voice no longer exasperated, just concerned.

Spencer sighed. "Yes. A lot of times. But like I said, I'm a lot better," Spencer paused again, feeling his voice crack. He waited for it to subside. "Really, they look more painful than they are."

Jane looked at Spencer for a long time. He almost thought he could feel her eyes moving over his injuries, their gaze like a light touch against the gashes, the yellowing bruises, his blackened eye, the swelling welt on his cheekbone.

"My second question is this: what happened when we last spoke?"

This question was by far the more difficult one. Spencer wondered if he had the strength to lie. More than that, he wondered if he should lie. His actions had hurt him deeply, and he knew now that they had hurt her too. Was it right to keep doing that? He thought about the alternative. There was always the possibility that the letter-writer would come after her. Could he risk that? Spencer thought. Perhaps there was a way.

"I think I need to explain things to you," Spencer began, swallowing hard and running his tongue across his lips. "It's pretty complicated, and it's going to seem crazy, but I think I have to tell you everything. So I'll do my best."

Jane nodded.

"There was this case, a couple of years ago now, which ended badly. We found the person responsible, but the situation was very complicated, and that person ended up getting killed."

Again, Jane nodded, a little more sceptically this time.

"There was also a family member, or maybe a friend, I can't quite work out who it is. I know that it's a man, I know that he's between thirty-five and forty-five, but that's about it. 

This person seems to blame me specifically for the way that things pan out. And they've been in touch, on multiple occasions."

Jane interrupted. "Look, Spencer, I can be sympathetic all you like. But I really can't see what this has to do with us. And to be honest, I don't really have the time or patience to listen to this."

"I know, I know," Spencer went on. "You have every right to be angry with me. But just hear me out."

Jane hesitated before nodding again.

"This person," he continued, "has been sending me letters. Threatening letters. And we sort of get a lot of them at work, so I more or less ignored them, until two weeks ago. He sent a letter straight to my apartment, so he knows where I live now." Again, Spencer paused. He didn't quite know how to say what came next. "And I'm pretty sure he knows   
where you live. Because he threatened you, as a way of threatening me. And I couldn't do that to you."

All o the colour had drained out of Jane's face. "Do you mean that you..."

"I preferred for you to think I was a jerk than to be in danger because of me. I staged that conversation, because I had put you in danger. You could still be in danger."

"Spencer, I..." Jane's eyes were glistening.

"I am so sorry. I'm sorry that I got you into this mess. I would do anything to protect you, anything."

"Spencer, I..." Jane began again.

"I know there's no way I can ever make up for this, but I promise that I thought it was the best way for me to get you out of this mess."

"Spencer!" Jane snapped. "I just wish you had told me. We could have worked something out. I wish you'd let me know."

Spencer looked up at her, taken aback. "You're not furious? You don't hate me?"

Jane smiled sadly. "No, I don't hate you. I love you. I thought that was the whole problem. What should we do now?"

Spencer was silent for a moment, taking in what Jane had just said. She loved him, in spite of everything. "I think that we need to be really careful for a while. We might not be able to see each other for a little bit, and we'll have to be really careful about how we communicate. I don't want to do anything to put you in danger."

Jane took Spencer's shaking hands across the table. "We'll figure this out. Just don't shut me out again, Spencer."

Spencer opened his mouth to speak, but his words were drowned out by a deafening noise from beyond the kitchen. The balcony door of his apartment had been smashed in.


	9. Retribution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just as Spencer and Jane find one another, Spencer's past catches up with him.

Together, Spencer and Jane's heads snapped around at the sound. The shock of hearing it kept them immobile for a few moments, long enough for the man who had smashed the window to arrive in the kitchen, still holding the brick he had used to break in. Spencer leaped to his feet. Instinctively, his hand went to his belt, searching for his revolver, but it wasn't there. Morgan had taken it back to the BAU after the attack, with the rest of his work stuff. It was probably there waiting for him now, lying quietly in the drawer of his desk. Unarmed, Spencer pushed Jane behind him and spread his hands in front - a practised gesture: non-threatening protection. "We won't hurt you," Spencer began, "Just please-"

His words were but off by a crushing blow to the head with the brick the man was still holding. Everything went back

Spencer's eyes fluttered open. It took a moment or two for everything to come back to him, but when it did, he tried immediately to jerk himself upright, to jump to his feet. Something pulled him back, making him slump once more down onto the ground. He looked wildly around him. His wrist was handcuffed to the radiator on the kitchen wall. He looked up, and suddenly realised that being chained to the radiator was the least of his problems. The man who had broken in was standing over in the kitchen, and just beyond him was Jane. She had been bound to a chair, her hands and feet tied tightly, and he had gagged her too.

"Please," Spencer said desperately. "Let her go. She has nothing to do with any of this. You'll have me, I won't resist. Just don't hurt her."

The man laughed, a soft sound, entirely without humour. "Ah, Mr Reid, did you really think that things were going to be so easy? No, you will not be given the luxury of being able to protect the people you love. Just as I was, you will be forced to witness her suffering, and know that there is nothing you can do about it."

"This has nothing to do with her," Spencer said, realising who he was dealing with. The man was the letter writer.

"Oh, Mr Reid, it has everything to do with her." He paused, and looked around at Jane. "Does she know what you did to me? To Elliot? Should I tell her?" He paused threateningly. "Well Miss," he said turning to Jane, "your fancy man here is responsible for ruining countless lives, and taking away countless others. Mine counts amongst the ruined. You see, a little while ago now, someone who I loved very much was involved in an accident. It was my brother, Elliot. He was threatened, and his choice was to kill or be killed. And he was hunted down for this, by the FBI, like a common criminal. Most enthusiastically of all by Mr Reid here. And so, when they cornered him, and held him at gunpoint like a monster, he saw..." the man's voice was thickening, closing over with tears, "he saw that his future, his bright, shining future was gone... and he... he... took his own life." The man stopped, wiping his eyes furtively.

Spencer licked his lips, stepping forward as he fought to find something, anything to say. He wished he had Hotch or JJ's ease in negotiations. He knew that even the tiniest false step could be the end. He fought to keep his body language open, when every part of him was screaming at him to run, or to lunge at the man. He held his open palms out in front of him, tried hard to keep his face relaxed, his eyes wide open. Spencer went on. "I know how hard that must have been, and I know how much you must miss Elliot, but hurting her is not going to brink Elliot back. And it's not going to make you feel better. I can understand if you want to hurt me, you hold me responsible. But I don't think that you want to hurt Jane. She's innocent. You don't want to destroy more lives."

Again, the man smiled. "Oh, but I do. Just one more: yours. And I admit that her life is an unfortunate price to pay, but I am willing to make sacrifices to get what I want. You see, Mr Reid, I understand you. I know how you think, how you work, because it is how I think, or at the very least, how I thought. Killing you, hurting you, is too easy. Physical pain is fleeting, it's over as quickly as the stimulus is. For us, Mr Reid, the question is not whether we're willing to die for something - that's a given. The question is whether we can kill for something, or withstand the deaths of others. If I were to hurt you, kill you, everything would be over far too quickly. Hurting her, killing her though, that will be more than you can bare. And it will be exactly what you inflicted on me."

The man turned around to face Jane. "I am sorry," he said. "But I hope you will understand that you are purely incidental. You could have been a cat, had our friend here elected to give his heart to someone else." 

Spencer strained uselessly against the cold metal of the handcuffs which connected him to the radiator as the man turned to face Jane. Gently, almost lovingly, he ran a finger along the side of Jane's face, before slapping her hard across the face.

"No!" Spencer shouted, straining still harder. In the silence following the slap, he heard Jane start to sob, tiny, gasp-like sounds, which shot through Spencer's heart like arrows. He strained again. "Please, stop. I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just don't touch her."

"We have much still to do, Mr Reid. I want you to have plenty of choice memories off this moment." He started to hit her again, slapping her back and forth across the face. 

Spencer cried out, screamed for him to stop, pulled and jerked against the cuff until his wrist started to bleed, but to no avail. then, suddenly, without him having said anything, the slaps stopped.

Spencer looked up. The man turned to face him, gave him a half-smile, and then stepped aside, revealing Jane. Her hair was tangled and messy about her face from the slaps, but the thing which the man had really wanted Spencer to see was far worse. Her lower lip had split from the force of the blows, sending a fat blood droplet dripping down her pale skin. "Pretty, isn't it?" the man asked, putting his finger in the blood, and dragging it down in a red line onto her chin. He looked at Spencer, making sure he seen, and then turned away.

Spencer looked down at his cuffed wrist. The cuff itself was sturdy, and so was the radiator. If he couldn't break either of them, only one option remained - he would have to alter his hand. Spencer grasped the cuff and tried to tug it up over his hand. It wasn't going to work, but he thought maybe....

Spencer grabbed a firm hold of the thumb of his cuffed hand and pulled with all his might. With a blinding flash of pain, and a sharp cry he had been unable to hold in, his thumb popped sickeningly out of its socket, and the cuff slipped painfully off. Spencer wasted no time. He staggered to his feet. But the man had already turned. Even as Spencer lunged towards him, he was raising something in his hand, something which he brought down, hard against Spencer's head. Spencer felt his legs buckle beneath him, and then, again, lost his grip on what was happening.

Once more, everything went blank.

He had been hit again, knocked out again. The pain inside his skull was so bad that it made him sway as though he were on a ship. At first, when he opened his eyes, he didn't know where he was. He could feel something rough pressed against his cheek, and beneath his hands. He lifted his head up slightly, worsening the pain. The carpet. He was lying on the carpet in his bedroom. It took him a few moments to realise that this meant that Jane was alone with the letter writer.

He leaped to his feet, then slumped uselessly back down on the bed, his head swimming from the sudden movement. He sat up again more slowly, this time managing to keep his feet. Spencer kicked his shoes off, wanting to make as little noise as he could, and left his bedroom.

Spencer walked, slowly and quietly as he could, towards the man's turned back. Beyond him, in the lounge, he could see Jane, still tied to the chair. Her eyes widened as she saw him approach, but he lifted a finger to his lips, warning her not to speak, not to give away his position. He stretched his hands out in front of him, reaching towards the intruder. Then, all in one movement, Spencer lunged at him, tackling him to the kitchen floor.

The man reeled around, his face contorted with hate and anguish. Spencer lost no time in closing his hands around the man's throat. He couldn't help but wait a moment before squeezing. He had killed people, certainly. Multiple people, but ultimately, his role was always to save, not to destroy. But this time, as the man had pointed out himself, it was a question of who Spencer wanted to save. He had made his choice. Spencer closed his hands.

The man began to fight back furiously. He bucked and struggled beneath Spencer, kicking savagely at the floor with his feet. The man drew his hands up, swatting powerfully at Spencer's face, delivering a few blows hard enough to make stars dance before Spencer's eyes. The man reached up and started to scratch and gouge at Spencer's face. Spencer shook his head back and forth, trying to escape the tearing hands, but couldn't get out of their reach while still retaining his hold on the man's neck. 

Spencer felt the man's nails bite into the skin of his cheek, and instinctively drew back, taking the neck he still held fast with him. Slumping back onto the floor, the man's head bumped against the tiles, hard. Hard enough to stun him, and make him stop his attack for a moment. The man's reaction lasted only a couple of seconds, before his hands again rose to continue their tearing. Spencer felt the fingers, with their sharp, unrelenting nails nearing his eyes. Almost automatically, he once again slammed the man's head into the tiles. 

The hands fell back to the ground once more. This time the man was less quick to recover. His kicking, his writhing were slowing, his face was reddening. The lack of oxygen was affecting his brain, sapping his strength. After a few seconds though, the hands once again rose. Spencer slammed him into the ground one last time. The hands fell. The body twitched, violently, and then, slowly, went entirely still.

Spencer had killed him.

He left the body on the floor and rushed over to help Jane. He quickly untied her wrists and ankles, removed the gag from her mouth. As soon as she was free, Jane shakily stood up, and staggered back, away from Spencer. She pressed her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened.

"Did you..." she began haltingly, "did you... kill him?"

Spencer looked back at the body. "I think I might have." As if woken from a dream, he grabbed at his mobile phone, laid on the table by the body, and dialled 911, requesting police and an ambulance.

"Why did you do that?" Jane said quietly. Fat, shining tears were starting to slide down her cheeks, and Spencer's heart constricted at the idea that once again, he had caused them.

"I had to protect you," Spencer said, his voice high pitched, and on the edge of tears. 

Jane shrunk away further, pressing her back against the wall. "But you didn't have to... you didn't have to kill him," she said quietly.

When the emergency services arrived, Jane and Spencer were still standing in the same positions, Jane sheepishly pressed against the wall, and Spencer standing a few steps back, not knowing whether to walk over and take her in his arms, or to walk away and never trouble her again.


	10. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the Letter-Writer's attack, Spencer and Jane must both think hard about what they're responsible for, and what they're not.

The ambulance arrived, the police arrived, and then a second ambulance (the first having taken the body back to the hospital) was called for Spencer and Jane. Spencer spoke calmly to the police officers, showing them his Bureau credentials, explaining carefully what had happened. Jane was asked to confirm what he had said, but couldn't manage much more than mumbled yeses and nos.

Spencer sat patiently as the paramedics saw to his more obvious cuts and bruises. "We think that you might be concussed," said one of them. "We'd like to take you in overnight for observation."

In the bright, clean hospital, they patched Spencer up, putting two stitches in a particularly nasty gash above his eyebrow, and carefully washing the deep scratches on his face made by the man's fingernails. They gave him an x-ray, too. "Just a precaution," the doctor said, "I don't think we'll find anything serious."

Then they gave him clean, crisp hospital pyjamas, and sent him to bed in a dark, silent ward. Listening to the sound of strangers' breathing, wrapped in the smell of hospital linen, Spencer drifted off to sleep. 

When he awoke late the next morning, Morgan was sitting patiently by his bed.

"Morning, kid," Spencer said, smiling as Spencer opened his eyes.

"Hey," Spencer replied, sitting himself up. "How did you know I was here."

Morgan tapped the side of his nose. "News travels fast when you work for the FBI." 

Both men were quiet for a few moments. Spencer knew what was coming next - if Morgan had known he was there, then he probably knew everything. And there would be questions.

"Reid, why didn't you tell us you were in trouble?" Morgan asked, his face concerned. "We could have helped you."

Reid sighed deeply. "I know that you could have. But I was scared, I guess I was scared that the same thing would happen to me as happened to Hotch. I thought that maybe if I just cut it off with her, then things would be okay."

"But you couldn't stay away from her," Morgan said.

Spencer nodded. Again they were silent. "Morgan?" Spencer asked.

"Yeah, pretty boy?"

"I think she's scared of me."

Morgan smiled again. "Scared of you? Are you serious?"

Spencer frowned. "Yes, I'm serious. After it was over, she looked really scared of me, and she said that.. she said..." he trailed off.

"What did she say, Reid?"

"She said that I shouldn't have killed him. Well, she said that I didn't have to kill him, but it means the same thing. I don't know if she'll every be able to trust me know."

Morgan pressed his fingers into his eyes for a moment, thinking. "You know, Reid, we're in situations all the time where we have to make the decision to kill, or be killed. There are times when you've had to make that choice, and follow it through. And that doesn't make you a monster, Reid. That doesn't make you one bit like the people we go after. What it does make you it a good profiler, and a good agent. You're no use to anyone dead, and sometimes there is no other choice to make."

"I know," Spencer replied, "but what if she's right? What if I could have done things another way?"

"You couldn't have," Morgan said immediately. "You're good at your job, and you have good instincts. If you felt like getting rid of this guy was the only choice you could make, then it was. I have absolute faith in that. And I think that this girl probably knows that. But you gotta understand, that's just not how most people think. Most people haven't learned to read situations like that the way we have. Hell, Reid, most people haven't even seen a dead body, let alone seen someone die. I think it must have been really shocking to her. She wouldn't be normal if it wasn't. But you have nothing to hesitate about. You did the right thing, and you saved her life. And sooner or later, she will see that."

Spencer hoped that he was right.

It was a few days before Spencer saw Jane again. The left the hospital separately, and Spencer decided to leave a few days before calling her. He half hoped that she would call him first. She didn't. On the third day after his release, Spencer dialled Jane's number. She picked up on the third ring. In short, clipped sentences, Jane explained that she had been just about to call him, and asked if he would be willing to meet her for a drink, and for a talk. A place was agreed on, and a date.

Spencer, as per usual, arrived early, and sat fidgeting at a table in the cafe. He had thought a lot about what Morgan had said. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that Morgan was right. He had no choice. Jane should have recognised that. The previous night, looking at the whole problem through two and a half glasses of cognac, Spencer had even been a little angry at her lack of understanding. It was immature and idealistic to expect everyone to be okay all the time. That only happened in fairytales.

Jane swept in from outside just as Spencer's resolve hardened. He would not let her make him feel guilty, make him feel like a killer. He knew that she did not mean to do it, but he would safeguard himself against it all the same.

"Hi," Jane said nervously, sliding into her seat opposite him. "I'm sorry I didn't call you sooner. I was..."

"It's okay," Spencer said. "It's good to see you. I think we probably need to talk about a couple of things."

Jane nodded, paused, and then began to speak. "Spencer, I'm really sorry about what I said, you know, back in your apartment. I know that you did what you had to do, and I know that if you hadn't, I would definitely be dead, and you might be too. I would have given anything to protect you, and I know... I saw, that you would do the same for me."

Spencer started to speak, "Jane, it's - "

She interrupted him. "No, it's not okay. I was just... Look, I don't do your job. I sew old books back together. And there's a reason for that. You're so strong in so many ways that I'm not, and that's why I was upset. I'd never... I'd never seen anyone die before. It was... oh, this sounds so stupid, I wasn't ready for it."

Spencer sighed. He could see where the conversation was going. "I'm sorry you had to see it. I'm sorry all of it happened."

"No, don't be sorry about any of that. Sorry that I saw it? You saved my life. You could have left me there. The guy was going to kill me, and let you live. You didn't have to take the risk of trying to save me from him. What I'm trying to say is that I can't believe I reacted like that when you had just risked everything to protect me. I can't believe I was so frightened, and so childish."

Spencer nodded. "We can't save everyone," he said simply. "We have to compartmentalise things, we have to be able to cut ourselves off. Otherwise we'd all go crazy. We consistently have to make these decisions - terrible decisions. The choice I had wasn't to kill or be killed, it was to kill, or watch you die. I couldn't have done anything other than what I did. Because I love you."

"I love you too. And I am more grateful to you that I'll ever be able to say," Jane replied, "but I don't know how to do that, how to make those decisions, or even how to deal with them afterwards. And I don't know if I can live in this world." Jane paused, pressing a hand against her mouth. She was trying not to cry. "I'm sorry that I'm so weak, Spencer. And I do love you, I do. But I don't know if I can... I don't know...."

Spencer nodded. He understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've really enjoyed writing about Spencer and Jane, and I feel like their story is probably not finished just yet. If you enjoyed this, I may well revisit them in the future for another work!


End file.
